


Common Ground

by tj_teejay



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: daredevilkink, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4335002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tj_teejay/pseuds/tj_teejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen finds out that Matt is just a little more scary when he’s throwing angry punches at a bag of leather and sand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Ground

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** Written for the kinkmeme prompt ‘[Matt/Karen: "Looks Like You've Got Some Anger Issues"](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/2760.html?thread=4974792#cmt4974792)’. Hasn’t been beta’ed, but has given me great pleasure to explore Karen and her dynamic with Matt a little more. Also, I’m European and had to ask the internet for US weight conversion. I don’t know if 160 pounds for Matt’s body weight is anything close to realistic. If not, please let me know and I’ll fix it.  
> 
> 
> +-+-+-+-+

Hell’s Kitchen at night has a different feel to it.

Karen knows it might just be in her head, but she thinks she can feel the air humming with a level of menace she’s never noticed before. Strangely, she also feels safer now, because the sheer fact of knowing that Daredevil keeps a watchful eye adds a certain level of reassurance. Not that she’s in Hell’s Kitchen at night very often. Sometimes she’s glad she lives in a different corner of the city.

She hesitates in front of the building, then tries the door handle of the door that states Fogwell’s Gym in black letters. It yields to her touch and the door opens almost noiselessly.

It’s dark, the only light source a dim, yellowish glow that shines through the large wall of opaque windows. Punches are being thrown somewhere. She hears aggressive puffs of air when fists collide with a punching bag. Growls go with it, just shy of angry yells. Someone’s coalescing their frustration into an outcry of heavy blows.

She edges closer to find that her presumption was right, but isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not. The figure throwing heavy punches in the otherwise deserted gym is her boss. Well, Matt. She doesn’t like to think of him as her boss, now, does she?

And he’s furious, and seething, and radiating pure, unbridled power. His cuffs increase in frequency, his yells more forceful now. The punching bag fights angrily against inertia and gravity, and the fists just keep coming.

Something inside of her is suddenly afraid, because this is not the quietly charming and ultimately vulnerable man she’s hugged when he was too lonely to cope, or the good Samaritan who donated his shirt when she was trying not to spiral into the abyss.

For a moment, she ponders just turning around to flee. She’s an intruder here. She doesn’t belong.

Then she remembers the reason she’s here, irrational as it may be. She’s been worried about Matt ever since that night his arms came around her and he cried into the crook of her neck. The changes were so gradual you could hardly notice, but he’s been more subdued, quiet, and a lot more irritable lately.

She’s only ever known him to be deliberate, to never say anything that hasn’t gone through some kind of filter. He isn’t the kind of person to just randomly snap at people, but the last two days…

He hasn’t quite been himself. She hoped Foggy would notice, do something, talk to him. But the two have been keeping each other at arm’s length for a while now, and these days Foggy seems to have the art of ignoring any Matt-related personal issues down to a tee.

She used to love Matt’s smile, his little laughs when Foggy said something funny or inappropriate, or just something very Foggy. Matt never laughs anymore, and his smiles are both rare and fleeting.

The day had been more stressful than others. Lots of phone calls, deadlines to meet, paperwork to get done, technical mishaps along the way. And then her ultimately meaningless verbal skirmish with Matt. His snubbing at her had seemed unprovoked and unfair over such a trivial matter, but ultimately he’d apologized. She’d dismissed it as a short fuse after a hard day.

But then during dinner of warmed up leftovers, alone in her home tonight, she couldn’t help looking back. Something must have happened, all the signs were there. And knowing Matt, he’d just swallow it down and let it simmer inside.

That was when she decided she couldn’t have any of that. Maybe because she knew all too well what that was like. She remembered Matt mentioning something to Foggy about Fogwell’s, and because they once called her to say Matt forgot his cane there, she knows what and where it is.

She listens to the merciless pounding of fists on leather for another moment. What seals it for Karen is the final roar of fury from Matt’s mouth. It’s frightening and a kind of anguish she’s never heard before.

In quick strides she walks over to where he’s abusing the oblong unanimated object. Her voice barely carries over the sound of his rage.

“Matt!”

He doesn’t seem to notice her, or if he does, it doesn’t show. He seems far away, lost in a maelstrom of wrath she can only begin to imagine. And she isn’t sure how to cut through, because what can she do against 160 pounds of sheer body mass and power?

“Matt! Stop!” She makes her voice as loud as she can, and that stops him dead in his tracks.

The bag sways back and forth, colliding with this knuckles, but he doesn’t lash out anymore.

“Matt?” she tries again, this time less forceful.

His breathing is fast, a sheen of sweat on his face and neck. His expression looks pained, exhausted. Years older than it should.

“Karen?” he asks between ragged breaths, and there is an irritability there she can’t deny. “What are you doing here?”

Yeah, how is she going to explain this to him? “Truthfully? I… don’t really know. But maybe it’s a good thing I am, because I’m not sure that punching bag or your knuckles could take much more of this.”

Something testy and unattractive flits across his face, and she’s almost sure he’s going to send her away.

His voice is huffy. “And I don’t see how that is any of your business.”

“It _is_ when you keep snapping at me for things of little importance. Or when you barely leave your office all day, or go self-destructing like this.”

His eyes go wide for a brief moment before he lets the shutters come down. “I said I’m sorry. Is that not enough?”

“Matt, I’m not talking about the Carson file.”

He struggles to control his breathing, his heart rate, wiping a bandaged hand across his brow. “Then what the hell _are_ we talking about?”

She raises her voice to match his. “I don’t know. You tell _me_.”

The little laugh he lets out is dismissive, harsh. “Yeah, because apparently you’re my therapist now.”

“Hardly. But I don’t need to be a professional to be worried about you.”

He lets out another breath through his nose. “How many more times do I need to tell you I’m—“

“Fine, yeah,” she interrupts. “I think this punching bag would agree to disagree.”

He stands up a little straighter, then walks past her with a confidence that still amazes her. She follows him to where his things lie on a bench by the lockers. He just stands there, and she holds out a towel for him. He takes it wordlessly before she can say anything, and she briefly wonders how he even knew.

The Velcro makes a sharp sound as he unfastens the hand wraps in a practiced motion. His movements are rushed, the air between them irascible. This hostility radiating off of him is very unlike his usual, centered self.

Sarcasm taints his voice. “And the next thing you’re going to ask is if I want to talk about it, and then I’m gonna say no, so why don’t we just skip that part and be done with it?”

“Because we’ve tried that, and clearly it’s not working for you.”

“Oh yeah? Says who?”

“Your battered knuckles and a gym filled with angry yelling. Because this? This is not normal, Matt.”

“Yeah, I think we left normal pretty much the day we started taking on Fisk. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s all been circling well outside the event horizon of normal ever since.”

“But that doesn’t mean you need to take it all on yourself,” she reminds him quietly.

He sits down, and finally there’s a semblance of self-control returning to his stance. “Yeah, I wish it were this easy.”

She joins him on the bench. “It can be. You just need to let people in.”

He seems to ponder that for a long moment. “But I can’t. And I wish I could explain it to you, but don’t think you’d understand.”

“You know what? Sometimes you tend to underestimate people. Because why is it that you automatically assume I don’t know what rock bottom looks like? What if I told you that I’ve done things, terrible things?”

And the images are back, she’s right where she left off that night. Wesley’s provocative voice across the table, his cocky face, and the shock in his eyes when she grabbed the gun and pulled the trigger. Crimson stains painting ever-growing circles on his white shirt before she panicked and ran. She squeezes her eyes shut and concentrates on Matt’s answer.

“Then I’d say you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She suddenly wants to slap him across his the face. “And why is it that you think you have the monopoly on guilt, Matt? You’re not the only person who ever got someone hurt.” Her voice becomes quiet. “Or worse than that.”

He suddenly goes very still. “What do you mean, ‘worse than that’?”

She stays silent, afraid to say more. She’s too close to letting it all unravel. Matt’s voice interrupts her thoughts, a little sharper this time. “Karen, what are you talking about? Did you get someone killed?”

 _No,_ she wants to scream. _Not_ gotten _someone killed. I killed someone in cold blood. There, are you happy?!_

But she doesn’t, because she’s become too good at swallowing it down, locking it up inside. It’s her cross to bear, and hers alone. So what Matt’s doing here? She gets it.

Her voice is sad, but there’s an urgency to it that she hopes he picks up on. “Can we not talk about that right now? Please?”

His breaths in and out are clearly audible before he speaks. “I think you will have to, at some point.”

She looks at him in the half light, wishes he could see her face. His hair is tousled and his eyes look so lost. He’s probably right, but she’s not ready.

She swallows, then says, “Matt, you and I, I think we’re not so different. We have things we keep locked up inside. You know, the ones that are too big to say out loud, because then they’d become real, and tangible, and just too overwhelming. So we go do our thing. Lash out, or hit punching bags, or listen to heavy metal until the neighbors come pounding on your door.”

“Is that what you do?”

“Yeah, I’ve been known to,” she confirms with a bittersweet smile, and she wonders... “That secret you carry around, does anyone know about it?”

He nods almost imperceptibly. “Two people. Well, maybe three. Not by choice, and I wish they wouldn’t. It makes things complicated.”

She nods. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

His voice is soft, trustful when he says, “Karen, if you need someone, you can talk to me. Any time. You know that, don’t you?”

Her face contorts into a grimace that might just reflect the bridge she tries to gap between gratefulness and desperation. “Yes, I know,” she whispers. “But I don’t think I’m ready.”

“I will be here when you are.”

“Thanks,” she says just above a whisper, and lets it hang in the air.

She watches him warily, and there’s just something about his posture. Perhaps a little boldly, she asks, “Matt, did something happen?”

He conceals any surprise that might have been there for the briefest of moments, wipes his face again with the towel. “What do you mean?”

“You haven’t been yourself these past two days. And I think you go here to work out, but not with this level of aggression.”

He draws in a long breath. “Yes, something happened. Something I did got someone hurt. Someone I care about. Sound familiar?”

It does, but not exactly. She didn’t care about Wesley. In fact, she never wanted the scheming bastard dead more than in that moment she pointed the gun at him.

“Are they going to be all right?”

“Yes, I think she’s going to be fine. Eventually.”

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, and she more than means it. She hopes he knows that.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Does she know you care this much about her?”

He nods, but it’s hesitant. Like there’s regret there, and something more complex. “Yes, that’s where it gets complicated.”

He throws the towel down on the bench and gets up, stuffing his gear haphazardly into his gym bag. “I need a shower,” he states.

“Do you want me to come with you? We can talk some more. There’s always Josie’s.”

He gives her another fleeting smile, and she can tell it’s meant to be reassuring, but it falls short. “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not, but I get it, Matt. So I’ll leave it at that. Just promise me you won’t do anything...”

“Stupid?”

She has to grin. “Or self-destructive. I’m just a phone call away, okay?”

He gives her a nod. “I know. Thank you, Karen.” Then he unfolds his cane. “Come on, I need to lock up.”

Diligently, gentlemanly, he waits outside with her until she gets into her cab. She watches him through the window as the driver pulls away, and wonders just how many more facets there are to Matthew Murdock, Attorney at Law.


End file.
